Flight

by Jae Waller

  But all that meant missing good things in my life. I wouldn’t have bonded with Nili and her brother, Yironem, while Hiyua and Isu hunted. I wouldn’t even like Fendul if we hadn’t spent hours upon hours sparring. Isu had given me unyielding instruction in calling water, setting snares, tanning furs — all the skills I needed to survive. The only reason I spoke Coast Trader so well was from spending so much time with Vunfjel kids. Even though I left Leifar the goatherd, I had enjoyed summers with him.

  And the last half year wouldn’t have occurred. I might’ve met Airedain, but not Tiernan or Marijka or Iannah. Never learned to read or ride. Never become the person I was now.

  The summer of the Storm Year, when the sky and earth ruptured and fell into each other, I saw a silver-blue wolf nuzzling its dead pack member. For a moment we simply watched each other. Then lightning struck and it bolted. The next morning, I awoke with the body of the wolf. I yowled and thrashed until the tent ropes snapped. Isu coaxed me through returning to my own body, then held me tight and kissed my hair until I calmed down.

  Every Rin had different ideas about attuning. Isu said our second form reflected who we were inside. Some people thought the form was a fluke. Fendul told me once he thought it happened when we related to another being. I never admitted it, but his version made the most sense.

  Nili, Fendul, and I showed each other our attuned forms when we reunited that autumn. After that I refused to do it again. Leifar and the Rin canoe carver’s apprentice I’d briefly been with had both asked what my form was. I hadn’t told either of them. For years, attuning was nothing more than a painful memory. I didn’t figure out what it meant until I started to think about leaving Aeti Ginu.

  As I lay in the snow under creaking branches, I knew it was time to stop resisting. A wolf was the second body I’d been given. Maybe in another world the aeldu gave me something else, but I had to accept the one I had. Iren kohal. Rivers keep flowing.

  •

  Light spilled out around the bedroom door. I raised and lowered my hand twice before knocking. The sound was so loud in the tiny cabin I almost bolted back outside.

  Tiernan opened the door wearing the thin shirt and trousers he slept in. His hair was more rumpled than usual. “Kateiko. Is everything okay?”

  “Can I come in?”

  He stepped aside. It felt strange. I’d dressed in here with Marijka, slept in Tiernan’s bed when I first arrived, been in the loft with him, but we’d never been in this room together. A tallow candle flickered on the bedside table like a dying beacon.

  I perched on the bed, covered by the smooth otter fur I sewed into a blanket for him. “I’m sorry for running off. It’s just . . . I realized my family might be alive.”

  “As might Jorumgard and a good many more of my friends.” His grey eyes were heavy with grief.

  I shivered. Even after drying my wool shirt and leggings, they were still cold. “There’s . . . another you out there. That’s who I saw in the wasteland.” I tilted my head. “You were smiling.”

  “At least I am happy somewhere.” Tiernan sat next to me and looked at his scarred, trembling hands. “I apologize for keeping so much secret. I find it . . . difficult to talk about.”

  I wrapped my hand around his. “I can’t help with your work anymore. I’m sorry, I just . . . can’t be part of that. But I want to help you through this, Tiernan.”

  “You help by being here.” His voice was choked. “I close my eyes and see blood, hail, spears. My comrades dead in the snow. I hear their screams in the wind. Every winter puts me back in those mountains, fighting to keep two other men from freezing to death while we fled.”

  No wonder he always wrapped himself in heat like a cloak. My burning man. His hair fell over his eyes, shining in the candlelight. I dug my nails into the fur to keep myself from brushing it aside.

  “What would you do if you got through to the shoirdryge? Would you stay there?”

  He was silent a long moment. “I do not know.”

  “You don’t think I should go.”

  “This is your homeland. You have family here. If you crossed to another world, you would never truly belong. I . . . had nothing left in Sverba. But Eremur will never be my home.”

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I said in a small voice.

  Tiernan smiled faintly. “You are a braver person than I to face this world.”

  Brave. Not a word often used to describe me. Reckless or bludgeheaded, usually. It felt strange to be called that by someone who’d travelled so far and fought so many battles, but suddenly I wanted to be brave. For both of us.

  “I want to show you something.” I let go of his hand and stood as far away as possible in the small room. He rose as well, but I shook my head. “Wait there.”

  My body shifted. My legs shortened, my face lengthened. Silver fur rippled over my skin. I fell forward and landed on paws. In the time it took to blink, I went from human to wolf.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected him to do. Back away, yell, look at me in disgust. Maybe hold out his hand like itherans did with their dogs.

  He just looked at me the same way he did every day.

  I shuddered, rising up on two legs, and whirled to face the wall. I buried my face in my arm as tears stung my eyes.

  “Kateiko.” Tiernan touched my shoulder.

  I lowered my arm and turned back to him. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “What for?”

  “For not caring. For never calling me a wood witch, or . . .” I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “I’ve only shown a few people that. Never an itheran.”

  “Kateiko.” The way he said my name was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. “As if I did not know when you gave me the makiri. Or when I saw your carving on the porch.”

  “It’s different though. Seeing it in person.”

  “I know.” Tiernan’s arms wavered by my sides before embracing me. A shock went up my spine as his fingers wove into my hair, pulling ever so gently on my scalp.

  I slid my arms around him and inhaled the smell of woodsmoke. We were the same height. I was smaller than most Rin men and freakishly tall next to itheran women, but alone with Tiernan, I only had him for comparison.

  Warmth soaked into my body. I closed my eyes, hardly breathing, hardly daring — but I nestled my face into his long unkempt hair, feeling the strands against my lips. For a while, I allowed myself to forget about this world or any other.

  And so winter passed, and we awaited the dawn of spring.

  19.

  SPRING EQUINOX

  Deep snow kept us at the cabin for a month. The frozen fog felt like a bubble that would burst if I moved too quickly. In the evenings, Tiernan and I took turns reading folk tales aloud. Sometimes I caught glimpses of strength and grace in his voice, only for it to disappear like a star that vanished the second I looked at it. He asked once, quietly, if there was any way I’d help with his research. He dropped the subject when I said no. Giving him a way to leave this world, to leave me, would be like putting my hand on a chopping block and letting someone else decide whether to swing the axe.

  Marijka brought news from Crieknaast after the paths cleared. The military was taking hard losses, driven back by storms every time they tried to breach Dúnravn Pass. Suriel’s men struck fast and retreated fast. People had started calling them Corvittai, a mix of the Ferish word for blackbirds and the Sverbian word for ghosts. I’d asked Marijka to search for Ingard, and she found him still at the tannery shop. His brother, Dåmar, had found work tending horses for the military. I thought about visiting, but after itherans attacked Airedain and me in Caladheå, I was afraid what they might do in a town hit so hard by Suriel.

  The days grew longer. The first patch of yellow grass was covered by sleet within a day, but the melt had begun. Cold, clear water spilled over the creek bank. Blue and purple buds pushed thr
ough the snow like delicate spearheads. An idea blossomed with them.

  I brought it up one evening while I swept woodchips around the fireplace. A crisp breeze made the flames sputter. “So . . . I was thinking about going to Toel Ginu.”

  Tiernan looked up from the bridle he was oiling. The smell filled the kitchen, savoury like broth. “To see your cousin?”

  “Yeah. Airedain suggested I come for the spring equinox festival. It’s the one night people from outside the jouyen are allowed in the shrine.”

  “Then you should go.”

  I twisted my hair behind my back. “I was hoping you’d come.”

  “Would I be welcome?”

  “There were itherans at the vigil for Baliad Iyo. I’m sure no one will mind.” I leaned on the broom, the straw crunching on the slat floor. “Please. It’d mean a lot to me.”

  Tiernan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Very well. For your sake.”

  My lips twitched. “Don’t look so grim. It’ll be fun.”

  “Should we bring anything?”

  I shook my head. “It’s rude. A jouyen is proud to offer food and shelter to anyone who visits, even after a long winter.”

  “I should do something about this.” Tiernan scratched his beard. “Make myself somewhat presentable.”

  “Nei, leave it. I like it.”

  “Maika says it makes me look like a lumberman.”

  “You’re an educated lumberman.” I giggled as he threw a handful of woodchips at me.

  •

  The Roannveldt plain was silent except for the squelch of hooves. Shaggy white goats watched us pass from boggy pastures. A massive horse pulled a plow through a muddy field. My attention kept straying east, but fog held the mountains’ secrets close.

  Beyond Caladheå, the plain rose into steep hills capped with snow. In the depths of South Iyun Bel, we rode past alder and cottonwood bursting with new leaves. A thousand shades of moss grew on salt spruce that were as thick as cabins. Anwea and Gwmniwyr flicked chittering insects away with their tails. Catching up to a boisterous group of Iyo, we slowed the horses to a walk. A cheerful girl perched on a log directed us to a stable near the visitors’ plank houses. In a pocket among bristling spruce, we found Sverbians rubbing down sweaty horses by a cluster of timber buildings.

  “I knew you wouldn’t be the only one,” I whispered to Tiernan.

  Seagulls squawked as we approached Toel Ginu. A rocky peninsula jutted into the ocean, steep cliffs dropping away to the water below. Dozens of plank houses stood in neat rows on the bluff. People were everywhere, talking in groups, carrying wooden casks and baskets of food, pounding torches into the dirt to mark paths. Children flew kites down the coast, colourful shapes skittering through the sky.

  Tiernan gave me an encouraging smile. I led the way, searching for familiar faces. I had poor odds, knowing as few Iyo as I did—

  “Kako!”

  I whirled. A huge figure lifted me into the air and spun me around. I squealed until my feet hit solid ground.

  Dunehein’s chest shook with laughter. “Look at you! My little cousin, all grown up!”

  I held up a lock of his wavy brown hair that tumbled past his elbows. “Aeldu save me, your hair! I barely recognized you!”

  “Good, ain’t it?” He beamed down at me.

  Dunehein was a bear of a man with arms like tree trunks, towering a head taller than me. Last time I’d seen him his hair was cropped. His clothes were simple — knee-length breeches and a sleeveless shirt showing his tattoos. Kinaru on his left arm, wreathed by tiger lilies, the same as Isu. Dolphin on his right, just above the band of serrated salal leaves from his wife Rikuja’s crest.

  “Airedain said he met you in Caladheå. I wondered when you’d show up.” Dunehein fixed me with a hard look. “Did you leave Aeti alone?”

  “Nei. Sort of.” I ducked my head. “Isu wouldn’t come. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” He slung an arm over my shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Um — this is Tiernan. I’ll tell you about that later, too. Tiernan, this is my cousin Dunehein.”

  Tiernan nodded, embarrassed. “Kateiko insisted I come.”

  “Sounds like the Kako I remember.” Dunehein rumpled my hair. “Let’s go to the shrine. Rija’s hard at work, but she’ll wanna see you.”

  The three of us made our way to the tip of the peninsula where a stone archway led to a small island. Rock pillars rose from the ocean, the cream and white and grey layers worn smooth by the waves. I peered over the cliff’s edge. On a narrow strip of beach, a group of boys were throwing rocks into the water, almost invisible in the mist.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Ai, Iyo-boy!”

  Everyone looked up, but only the one with spiked hair waved. “Rin-girl! You came!” Airedain yelled.

  “Be careful,” Dunehein teased as we crossed the bridge, waves churning underneath us. “That boy’s trouble.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea.”

  We passed under the shrine gate, the rioden logs carved with leaping dolphins, and up a flagstone path into a salt spruce grove. The sweet scent of lilac filled the air as we followed Dunehein up timber steps and into the tiered shrine. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. Sunbeams full of dust motes filtered down from high windows. The upper floors wrapped around each wall, leaving a hollow square in the centre so I could look straight at the roof from the ground. Normally the silence in a shrine weighed on my ears like deep water, but it was filled with the clatter of preparations.

  Dunehein sent me upstairs to get Rikuja. I climbed a narrow creaking staircase, passing row upon row of carved symbols on the walls. Unlike Aeti Ginu, where family history was recorded on plank house doorframes and jouyen history was recorded in the shrine, all history for the Iyo was in the shrine. Every birth, death, marriage, battle, and okorebai for hundreds of years was written there. I wondered what they’d do when the walls filled up.

  I found Rikuja on the third floor, sitting cross-legged on a high platform of interlocking beams. Her pale brown braid was woven with bark cord. She worked with deft movements, the tap tap of her chisel echoing off the ceiling.

  “Rija?” I said.

  She dropped the chisel. “Kako!” She leapt off the platform and swept me into an embrace, throwing aside the hair taboo in a single motion. “We heard you were in Iyun Bel! Dune was about ready to go searching for you.”

  I scrunched up my face. “Sorry. It’s been a long process getting here.”

  Rikuja stepped back. “Oh, love, look at you. Tall and beautiful. You must have all the boys at Aeti Ginu tripping over each other.”

  “Nei, Nili’s got that position. But I don’t mind. Boys scare away all the hunting.”

  Rikuja laughed. “My work can wait. I have something to show you.” She dragged me to a row of carvings that ended halfway up the wall. “Here.”

  I looked where she was pointing. Between a tiger lily and a salal leaf was a blank circle. Only then did I notice she wore a loose shirt to fit over her stomach. I clapped a hand to my mouth. “Rija — are you—”

  “Yes.” Her smile lit up the whole shrine.

  I flung my arms around her and pulled back immediately. “Sorry, sorry, I should be more careful! How far along? This is the first one, right? Aeldu save me, what else did I miss?”

  She laughed again. “Five months. First one. Don’t worry.”

  I leaned over the railing. “Dunehein!” I yelled down. “What took you so long?”

  He gave me the two-hand salute, slapping his shoulder twice in a perfect fuck you. I doubled over, the railing pressing into my stomach as my laughter echoed throughout the shrine.

  •

  We had dinner with Dunehein and Rikuja in their plank house, clustered around the hearth with ten or so other
families. It was chaotic and informal, passing everything around on platters to share with messy fingers. Salted lingcod drizzled with smelt oil, rye flatbread with huckleberry jam, fermented seaweed, pickled mushrooms and brassroot, deer sausage, cranberry wine. Tiernan, laughing, said some of it wasn’t far off from what they made in Sverba.

  He and Rikuja fell into conversation about woodcarving, so after dinner she offered to show him monuments around Toel Ginu. Dunehein and I slipped away to sit on his bed at the far end of the plank house. With woven bark mats, vellum lanterns, and the dirt platforms covered with fur blankets, it felt like being back in our plank house at Aeti Ginu.

  The Tamu had promised to tell Dunehein that his older brother died in the Dona war, but I’d never been sure if my message got through. I braced myself for the worst. “Did you hear about Emehein?”

  “Yeah. From the Tamu. Took a year though.” Dunehein rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish my tema told me herself.”

  “I asked Isu to come. I’m sorry, she just . . . she didn’t want me to come either.”

  “It ain’t your fault.” He wrapped massive hands around mine. “I should’ve come back for you. The Okorebai-Iyo told us to wait, and I didn’t wanna push too much when I’d only been Iyo for a couple years. Then, well, the Rin never reached out. I kept thinking, next year it’d happen.”

  He was the same as I remembered, even his Rin accent intact. He’d always been like a brother to me. Emehein had been distant. Serious. Loyal enough to die for our people. Dunehein left when he was twenty, as soon as Rikuja was old enough to marry. We gave each other condensed versions of everything since then. I went over the last six months in more detail, leaving out the shoirdryge. Dunehein was the only person besides Nili I’d ever been completely honest with, but I wouldn’t put that weight on him.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes so you can stay in Toel,” he said. “Tokoda, the Okorebai-Iyo, knows what Behadul’s like. Maybe she’ll make an exception. Let you become Iyo without marrying in.”